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Monday, 28 January 2013

Last
week, I was lucky enough to experience Freelance Whales live in Toronto at the
MOD club – an evening that easily pushed this band to the top of my favourites
playlist (and, if there’s one thing I am outwardly proud of, it’s my musical
collection…Which will knock the balls off yours. Trust me.)

After
having my head blown off by the level of musicianship I encountered that night,
I began to ponder over the lyrical genius also inherent in a Freelance Whales
song, only the arrive at the conclusion that the writing is so far beyond an
average intelligence level that most listeners would have great difficulty
deciphering any subliminally encoded messages. Fortunately for you, the simple
act of stumbling upon this page has granted an opportunity to bypass the
ambiguous rhetoric and move into deep understanding…You know, because I claim
to have superiority over your ability to comprehend the lyrics. Below, my
easily confused friends, are 6 carefully selected excerpts from Freelance
Whales song writing that will be forever framed in the light of pure truth via
my thorough interpretations.

“Shut
me up with your long tube socks, they don’t scream ‘Hey, let’s just be
friends’”

Ah, yes, the perfect
start to our virtual Freelance Whales guidebook: the opening lines to
‘Starring’, a band favourite if I do say so myself. While we find the writer
taking the first-person perspective of a smitten, gleeful romantic that had
radically changed their outlook on their lover-to-be, many other layers of lust
are explained throughout the piece. Here, the subject participating in the mere
act of wearing high socks has given the writer an erection. Clearly, someone is
obsessed.

Let’s be frank here:
tube socks cannot speak nor do they have sentience. On the other hand, seeing
their crush in tube socks has left
the writer speechless. Amazing is the power of socially-constructed axioms on
the human mind, especially in the case of outward appearance. If tube socks are
what get you off, then tube socks on that
person you’ve been stalking is guaranteed to give you some bedroom material for
a long, long time.

“Don’t
fix my smile, life is long enough, we will put this flesh into the ground
again”

Let’s shift gears now
and study the final words of ‘Generator: Second Floor’. What social
implications are being discussed in this example? The cyclical nature of life
on earth? The pressure associated with having the ‘perfect body’?

It is clear that Freelance
Whales is quite anti-plastic surgery (at least in the case of aesthetic
purposes). Honestly, at this point, they sound like hippies. But cool hippies,
like the kind that still have jobs and are productive members of society. They
preach a gospel that drives against North American values of body image and
fake ba-jube-jubes, finding happiness in the natural and unscathed.

“ohh-weeeeee…..”

Found in almost every
Freelance Whales song, it seems as through actual
words don’t always cut it when you’re creating a masterpiece. Sometimes,
it’s just better to bust out in some melodic non-sensical mouth noises instead
of singing with real words.

“Do
me this solid if you would, pretty lady – please grab your martini and meet me
on the balcony”

Who doesn’t like a nice
martini for those nights spent socializing on a balcony? Not ‘Hannah’,
evidently, or this song wouldn’t be named after her. Hannah seems like a fairly
awesome person if she partakes in these activities.

Moreover, Freelance
Whales have stayed classy by finding time to both compliment a female and feed her drinks whilst enjoying the
outdoors. No need to worry about mislead intentions here – the song continues
to explain how the writer desires to make a ‘light show’ and questions whether
or not Hannah is ‘outside-in or inside-out’ (obviously not sexual references). This tots danceable musical creation is one
of their best and most admired, if only to celebrate the fact that Hannah is
about to endure one of the wildest and forgettable nights of her life
(depending on what was put into that ‘martini’).

“But
oh, you caught me sleeping in the power sockets, you caught me mildew in the
tiles of the bathroom.”

Yeah….I have no idea what’s going on in this one.
Your guess is as good as mine.

“..your cello bows, we stole your hair to make
them…We’re sorry for the iron shoes we nailed to you and stuck you in the rain
alone.”

Finally, we arrive at
one of the most poignant selections in the Freelance Whales artillery: ‘Broken
Horse’, a song about animal rights, human/non-human relations and a fairly
mistreated steed. From near-skinning a horse for musical instruments to shoving
a metal half-ring into its feet, Freelance Whales warns a desensitized youth of
the perils in animal domestication.

Sifting through the
deep-rooted words of Freelance Whales is a taxing but necessary process if one
is to complete the circle of post-folk wizardry. I hope my simplifying of said
works has helped you to establish a well-rounded picture of this powerhouse
indie team. Please enjoy responsibly.

Tuesday, 22 January 2013

I step out of the airplane and am
immediately greeted by a violent wave of heat that begins to permeate every
inch of my body; I am overdressed, heavily unprepared and immediately turn into
a puddle of sweat on top of skin rashes on top of more sweat. I fight the
overwhelming urge to make an about face and retract to the safety of the plane
interior; it seemed too harsh the transition between the modernity of food
carts and tray tables to…well…..this.
My new cruel (yet totally self-subjected) reality: Ghana, West Africa.

Welcome to paradise.

It is dark when I arrive and there are
no fancy elevated walkways to the main building at Kotoka International Airport
in the capitol of Accra, just a narrow staircase leading me onto the invisible
tarmac that steams from the aftermath of a disappeared African sun. On the
other side of customs I am swarmed by locals looking to make a fast buck – I am
an easy target: white, inexperienced and confused (to use a rather understated
term). Finding a cab to a hotel costs me dearly after the posse of Ghanaians
demand an honorarium for assisting me and my ridiculous amount of luggage
across a parking lot. I hand out my only currency, a wad of American twenties,
and feel instantly stupid for being so explicitly taken advantage of. Never
mind, I am alone and I am scared shitless. I Vulcan Grip the strap of my hiking
bag and stare out the window of the cab for the remainder of my night’s
travels.

The Intercity STC was one of many such questionable
modes of transportation I encountered.

Nothing could be more terrifying than
your first few steps into a third world country - unless, of course, you’re
also doing this totally alone and unguarded. Such was my plight after an 18
hour overseas multi-flight trip from my hometown of Toronto, Canada to one of
the poorest places in the world. After arriving, of course, I still had to make my way into the
interior of Ghana – hours on buses that would eventually make their way into
the Upper East District – and finally, my
god finally, one last cab ride into the tiny village of Zwarungu where I
was to set up camp for the next four months. If Africa is never what you think
it is, I was certain I had found the perfect antithesis for every imaginable
conception I had garnered previous.

I was thrown into the deep end without a
paddle and had to navigate my way around what was an intensely new place to me.
The NGO that had funded me worked under a philosophy of strict cultural
assimilation via travelling alone while investing oneself completely into the
community and, while the theory ultimately made sense, I still debate to myself
whether or not the lack of support actually helped or hindered my experience.
What I saw in fact turned me into a hard-wired pessimist.

We had already partnered with the
Ministry of Food and Agriculture in Ghana and it was my job to assess Zwarungu
for its viability of adopting the “Agriculture as a Business” program, aimed at
incorporating business models into the practice of growing and extracting food
(this is, after all, West Africa’s largest industry). The goal, ultimately, was
to intensify agriculture through microfinance programs and the forming of farmers
groups – with the end result a transition from sustenance farming to revenue
generating models. I ended up working exclusively with women’s groups (women
account for close to 85% of the labour involved in farming in Ghana while the
men dominate managerial and/or political positions) that produced everything
from shea butter to various types of maize, ground nuts and even straw baskets.

At the end of my four month term, to be
painfully honest, I accomplished quite little externally. We still had no idea
whether or not Zwarungu could profit from the program, thanks in part to the
fact that I think I was sick with Malaria or some other kind of parasite for
close to half the time (and if you’re interested in learning more about extraction, this would be a completely
new and kind of gross example). I walked away, however, not really caring about
this. Instead, a rather unusual epiphany had actually changed my entire
perspective of the experience: I was in Africa to help me. Yes, to risk sounding rather self-centered, the most important
part of my trip became how much I
could benefit from understanding true poverty, forming relationships with my
host family or business partnering with the director of my office. If I was to
actually make difference anywhere, it
would be in Canada, after all of this was over.

And after every single kid received a photo of themselves.

I’m not afraid of admitting how happy I
was to be back in North America after this trip, nor am I hesitant to tell you
that I probably won’t ever do something like that again. But if you asked about
regrets, I have none. West Africa is an incredibly beautiful place full of
incredibly beautiful people who are happier than most of my friends and peers
in Toronto, despite the fact that they account for one of the poorest
demographics in the world. The word extraction
takes on so many meanings in this context; extracting knowledge from
endlessly meaningful experiences, extracting self-understanding through doing
things I thought I never had the capability of doing, and extracting a new
perspective of just how messy the world actually is but, conversely, extracting
pure truth and hope and beauty from its center….All you have to do is tilt your
head a little.

Tuesday, 15 January 2013

Google Map “Pine Point, Fort Smith,
Unorganized” and prepare for a virtual trip to a faraway place. The location
name is automatically proceeded by native script and you are taken to a remote
section of Northern Canada, just below the Great Slave Lake and roughly two
hours East of Hay River, Northwest Territories. A skeleton of small roads
creates a grid between some small lakes beside a nearby rail line. The Fort
Resolution Highway crosses to the South; just below that begins the massive
Wood Buffalo National Park – further down, the Alberta – NWT border. You get
the feeling that virtually nobody lives
here.

And you’re right.

Hundreds of small settlements just like
Pine Point line the highways and shores of Canada’s North, but what makes this
one in particular a little different is its history as a once rural oasis
turned desolate ghost town in a matter of days. So what happened at Pine Point?

Wikipedia, online knower of all things,
has an entire page
dedicated to Pine Point. In the true unapologetically frank style only
Wikipedia could get away with, Pine Point is explained as a ‘single-industry
town’ that closed when the local zinc mine shut down. Afterward, ‘All buildings
were removed or demolished, and today the site is completely abandoned,
although there is still evidence of the street layout.’ So, hey, total bummer.
End of story?

Not really. What don’t you get from such
a brash and condensed version of Pine Point’s demise is its story as a place
where people once lived, went to school, worked and formed a community –
however short this era may have lasted. Pine Point was the unfortunate product
of a Federal social experiment designed to provide a group of people with
cookie-cutter housing and a job all in the same place, and see what transpires.
After the mine stopped producing, as mines tend to do when they extract
non-renewable resources, there was no choice but to pull up shop. But by then,
a strong community had formed: relationships, traditions, social circles….The
end of Pine Point wasn’t only marked by the bulldozing of people’s homes, but
the end of a life its residents would have understood deeply, many of whom were
born and raised inside the small town.

A selection from the 'Welcome to Pine Point' website.

Today, little physical evidence exists to
remind us of the once thriving village of Pine Point, but through the wonders
of film and internet, the ‘lost mining town’ has been resurrected and re-formed
through the voices of its ex-citizens. ‘Welcome to Pine Point’, an incredible
interactive website dedicated to retelling the true story of Pine Point, is now
fully accessible and complete with original pictures, sound, video and more.
The website has since been maintained by Pine Points own Richard Cloutier, the
same person who donated most of the material, while funding and technical
production has been overseen by the National Film Board. A secondary website
created by Cloutier, Pine Point
Revisited,
also includes information on his experience as part of this short-lived
settlement.

With greater insight into the matters of
Pine Point and the people who once called it home we can begin to see the
mistakes of its very creation. Pine Point is not an isolated incident, but
serves as an important lesson on how we build, and sometimes destroy, the
places we live and the communities we nurture. Thanks to some dedicated
individuals, we won’t forget Pine Point and what it has taught us: humility,
sacrifice and the inevitability of time.

Monday, 7 January 2013

Ah, yes…2013 is upon us like the flabby
and unwanted ‘beer baby’ obtained after a few too many holiday Tecates you smuggled
across the border while on that ‘Mexican thrill ride’ fall vacation. Indeed, as
we celebrate twelve new months of…well, whatever, it’s hard not to feel hope,
promise, success and….fear?

Just like th...Wait, what?

I’m not a fan or maker of resolutions,
but if I were to wish upon a New Year’s star my aspirations would probably seem
more like basic living requirements instead of dreams of celebrity and healthier
choices. At the top of my list: a job.

I, like many of my academic comrades,
will graduate in the spring. When the classes finish and a degree finds its way
into my palms that sweat in tense anticipation, I am released unto to the world
and will attempt to navigate my way out of the supernovae of jobless graduates
and young post-students who aren’t even remotely working in their field. It’s a
scary prospect, so is it weird that I feel so excited about it?

Hence, by virtue of this post, my happy,
new fear. Happy because I plan on
enjoying life after university, and fear because
I’d rather not also end up making a living by re-selling outdated couch covers
at above market price from my parents basement. Today, more university
graduates have been unable to find a job/ a job in their field than ever before. Apparently
because everyone gets degrees nowadays. And a whole bunch of people who were
laid off during something called ‘the recession’ are also trying to find a job.
Super.

So…What’s my plan? I’ve got
extra-curriculars, volunteer hours, an internship, work experience….but is it
enough? Seeing as the job market currently operates on internal postings and
something called nepotism , perhaps I
should revisit my strategy and lower the bar (just a bit?). See, this would all
be easier if I could just shape shift into my virtual Sim.

Enjoying the flowers of employment.

But sexy Sim Aaron only exists in my
brain and not on my resume, so it’s time to buck up and face the reality that
good professional jobs are hard to come by and seem to take a combination of
luck and good fortune to obtain. As I try my dandiest to be an exception, I can’t
help but feel my condolences for the other new grads that (unlike me) will be
flung into the market with overwhelming debts and pressure to perform. Is this
really how we want to treat our young ‘leaders of tomorrow’? Never mind
changing the world; we’re still worried about paying next month’s rent.

Welcome to lost and found!

I'm glad you've found your way over. This blog is maintained and operated by Aaron Turpin and cronicles the activities of a Student-Employee/Traveller/Creative Thinker. Check out what I've been up to lately by cruising the various tabs above and reading the posts. Leave a comment if you wish!

About Me

I am a curious person by nature and have an immense passion for learning and new experiences. Travelling and stepping out of my comfort bubble are huge parts of my life. I try to live creatively with everything I do while supporting the global community as both a leader and a student.